


Allegiance

by JeanGraham



Category: Blake's 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 11:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: Avon has no qualms about changing sides.  Will Vila follow him?





	Allegiance

**See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>**

**Allegiance ** by Jean Graham   


Quarrus held a new and dubious honor as the wettest and most   
miserable planet Kerr Avon had ever seen. He had just spent the   
past half hour telling Blake so, in less than amiable terms, while   
Gan and Cally slogged unappreciatively behind, trying   
unsuccessfully to ward off the assault of moisture from the   
moss-laden trees.

"Why don't you give up, Blake? There's nothing here -- there   
probably never was!"

Blake, curls pressed limp to his forehead, ignored the remark   
and paused to consult the pulsating red light on his teleport   
bracelet. "Zen's still receiving the signal." He nodded toward   
the wall of dripping green that faced them. "And it's coming from   
somewhere in there."

Avon scowled. "A remarkable display of flawless directional   
accuracy -- 'somewhere in there.' Something to tell your   
shipwrecked rabble when we've rescued them, provided we do not   
drown in the attempt."

Blake ignored that, too, making Avon's scowl deepen. He had   
failed thus far at every turn to convince the rebel leader that   
distress calls were one of the Federation's favorite ruses, and   
even if the signal were genuine, probabilities were high that it   
was no more than an automated beacon, its programmers long since   
dead. As usual, Blake stubbornly refused to be persuaded.   
Foolhardiness, Avon decided, must be a staple sub-trait of rampant   
idealism.

"We may have better luck if we split up," Blake was saying   
over the mutter of thunder from overhead. "Check in every quarter   
hour with the bracelets."

Cally, her own curls a damp tangle, nodded. "I agree."

Gan had been peering at the colorless sky suspiciously. "So   
do I," he said.

As though the matter had thus been decided, Blake made to move   
away. Avon stopped him with an irritated warning. "If it is a   
trap, we stand a better chance together."

Yet again, Blake pretended not to hear him. "We meet back   
here in an hour," he said to the others. "Unless one of us finds   
anything. Stay in contact." This with a meaningful glance at   
Avon. "All of you."

"Damn it, Blake, will you--"

"Perhaps you hadn't noticed," the other man interrupted, and   
his tone was that of a stern parent correcting an errant child,   
"but you've just been outvoted. Back here, one hour." With that   
he pivoted and strode away, if one could be said to stride through   
the muck underfoot. Gan and Cally, choosing different directions,   
had done the same, and no sooner had the three of them vanished   
into the trees than the clouds unleashed a drenching downpour. Jaw   
set, Avon stood his ground for several moments before selecting a   
path some meters west of the others and forging into the trees on   
his own.

The temptation to call Vila and simply teleport back to   
_Liberator_ nagged him with every labored step. He'd been a fool to   
let Blake order him down here in the first place -- let the   
blundering oaf get lost and fall into a bog and the other two as   
well, he was going back to a quiet cabin, warm air, and dry   
clothes, and to hell with Blake's bloody distress signal.

The bracelet chimed before he could depress the control.   
"Vila--" he started to say to it, but another, harsher voice   
responded instead, cutting him off."

"This is Blake. Prepare for teleport; we're going to wait and   
try searching again when the rain's let up."

Avon glowered wetly at the bracelet. "High time," he   
complained, but Blake had switched frequencies, and under the crack   
of a renewed thunder assault, he heard the beginning of an order   
for Vila to teleport. The words cut off in mid-sentence, lost, he   
assumed, to the temporary interference of the atmospheric   
disturbance. Avon bade Quarrus an unfond farewell and stood ready   
for the teleport's energy field to reclaim him.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

"Vila..." He slapped at the bracelet's control switch in   
consternation. "Vila, you halfwit, bring us up!"

The only response was the diminishing patter of the rain as   
the cloudburst, spent, surrendered.

Avon shifted frequencies and tried again. "Blake... Cally,   
Gan. Are you receiving?"

Silence, and the surrounding drip-drip-drip of run-off from   
the irregular canopy of moss and vine above him. Nothing else.

_"Liberator!_ Zen, this is Avon. I require teleport, do you   
receive? Repeat, I require tele--"

The loud report of something snapping underfoot brought Avon's   
blaster instantly to hand. He dived for the nearest cover -- a   
fallen tree -- and rolled over to right himself and peer out at the   
semi-clearing. If this was Blake coming back, he might just   
cheerfully shoot the man and have done with it. Four months in his   
company had done absolutely nothing to improve Avon's   
interrogation-frayed nerves, and a future subordinated to Blake's   
prating, crusade-mentality was not one that he relished, either.   
Better to--

Something hard and cold pressed itself to the back of his   
neck. "Put the gun down, friend."

He obeyed the request, hoping beyond probable reason that this   
was merely one of Blake's shipwrecked mariners, and an overcautious   
one at that. Two more of them materialized from the trees as he   
got to his feet, all armed, all dressed in soiled fatigues the   
color, more or less, of the forest undergrowth. Not Federation...

The man nearest him -- the one who had spoken -- held his   
ancient projectile rifle firmly in hand and pointed with a stubbled   
chin at Avon's wrist. "What's that then?" he demanded. "Some kind   
of radio?"

Avon met the too-narrow eyes with scorn and took the   
offensive. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The stubbled face broke into a gap-toothed grin, a soundless   
mirth shared by the other two. "Parn's my name. And you're what   
I want, friend." The grin broadened, thin lips pulling back from   
yellowed teeth. "This 'ere's Lorka, that one's name's Dunne, an'   
now that we're all nice and formal like, yours'd be Avon, now   
wouldn' it?"

"I think you've--"

"Made a mistake?" Parn finished mockingly. "Not very   
original, are you? We just heard you call roll into that piece of   
jewelry on your arm. You can take that off too, while we're at   
it." The gun came up to threaten him. "Oh and... then be so kind   
as to turn around...and put your hands behind your back."

Avon surrendered the inoperative bracelet, then with a glance   
at Parn's silent compatriots and the weapons they held, grudgingly   
obeyed the second command. Immediately, chill metal clamped itself   
around his wrists, binding them together by a brief length of   
chain. Parn tugged at the bonds experimentally before spinning his   
captive back around to face him. His ugly grin remained firmly in   
place.

"Comfy?" he asked.

Avon frosted the three of them with a look, but it had no   
visible effect.

Lorka, scratching at a dirty neck, cracked a smile greedy   
enough to rival a Terra Nostra crimelord's. "How much is he worth,   
Parn?"

The question surprised Avon, not because it confirmed his   
suspicion that the trio were bounty hunters, but because he'd had   
no inkling, until Lorka had spoken, that she was female.

"Big time money, this one." Parn was leering. "A million   
cees, according to Circe, and there're five more where he came   
from."

Avon watched their eyes widen appreciatively at the simple   
arithmetic of dividing six million credits three ways, and wondered   
why this Circe had been uninformed (or perhaps simply   
uninformative?) about the additional reward offered by the   
Federation for _Liberator_. Blake, Cally and Gan, if they were still   
on the surface at all, had somehow escaped notice, which meant that   
they had probably teleported on schedule, and only Avon's bracelet   
had failed to function. Which further meant that _Liberator_ might   
well already be on its way out of the system. If Blake could fail   
to notice Cally's absence after teleport, no doubt he could also   
overlook Avon's. Perhaps he'd even intended to. But then, there   
was that distress call, still irritating both Zen's circuitry and   
Blake's conscience...

Parn's rifle was dancing an arc through the dripping mist.   
"After you, friend," he said unctuously, and the others chortled at   
the false amenity. Avon affected his best bored expression, shook   
several layers of muck from his boots, and walked in the direction   
Parn's gun had indicated.

There was little conversation amongst the three over the   
ensuing twenty minutes, but enough was exchanged for Avon to gather   
that A) they were native to this mudhole of a planet and B) Circe   
was a contact they had made over primitive shortwave on the   
surface, a contact to whom they were now herding their prize.   
It followed, of course, that Circe would be a Federation agent   
of one degree or another. Mentally, Avon cursed the faulty   
bracelet, Blake, the Federation, and his own careless stupidity,   
none of which helped at all other than to pass the time.

Navigating over the wet, uneven terrain without benefit of   
free hands for balance proved more difficult than he'd imagined --   
he fell twice, and suffered the indignity of being manhandled by   
the grimy and foul-tempered Dunne. He might have been relieved   
when they came at last within sight of their goal, except that the   
goal proved not to be the backward clutter of native buildings he   
had expected, not the cell with antique locks that his hidden pick   
might have jimmied, but a ship, modern, sleek, and grounded   
imposingly on a flat expanse of meadow. Avon had the sick feeling   
that he had just been led to the source of Blake's distress signal.

Black-clad figures stood, statue-like, on either side of the   
landing ramp. Mutoids, Avon realized as they approached. One   
male, one female, or they had been once. It scarcely mattered any   
more, to them or anyone else, what sex they had been before   
'modification' had rendered them automatons and placed them in   
unquestioning, mindless service to Federation Space Command. The   
only concerns they had now were obeying their masters and keeping   
their feeder tubes supplied with blood plasma. In that order.

"You!" Parn barked at the male on the left side of the ramp.   
"Go tell Circe in there we got a package for her."

The mutoid did not react for a moment, though Avon noted the   
gloved fingers tightening on the paragun it held.

"My mistress is already aware of your presence," it answered   
at length.

"Oh?" Parn obviously failed to fathom how that was possible.   
"Well then tell her we agreed on a million apiece, and we'll   
collect for this one now and the rest when he tells her where to   
find 'em." He shoved the muzzle of the rifle into Avon's ribs for   
emphasis. "We'll wait here."

"That will not be necessary," the female said, and Parn pulled   
the gun back to stare at her over its raised barrel.

"How's that?"

"We have been instructed to render your payment."

Parn's toothy grin reasserted itself. "Well that's more like   
it. Where is it then?"

He hadn't quite finished his question when the answer slammed   
into him, courtesy of the male mutoid's paragun. Dunne fell in the   
same instant, a cry of disbelief strangling in his throat, and   
Lorka's attempt to turn and run got her nowhere -- a second shot   
from the female's weapon cut her down less than four yards away.

Standing impassive amidst the melee, Avon silently thanked the   
unseen Circe for her payment, then allowed himself to be led up the   
ramp and into the bowels of the waiting ship.

Whatever he'd thought he might find aboard, it was certainly   
not the lavish elegance which met his eyes: the ship's interior   
reflected a hedonism that would have given the wealthiest Alpha   
pause. Neither was the 'cell' what he'd anticipated -- the mutoids   
led him to a cabin, ushered him inside, and after removing Parn's   
restraints from his wrists, departed and locked the door. Avon   
gave the mechanism a cursory inspection before concluding that his   
pick would be no help against magno-circuitry this sophisticated.   
He turned to survey the room.

Mirrors, draped on either side by red lace fabric. Furniture,   
opulent gold gilt, antique by the look of it. Crystal decanter   
filled with red wine, glittering in the subdued light beside a   
single flower, also red, in a gold-tone vase. Upholstered chairs,   
patterned carpet -- red and gold, -- the scent of a dusky, floral   
perfume... And the dominant feature of the oversized room, the   
bed, festooned in overstuffed pillows and shining gold silk.

The most expensive pleasure houses in all of the Alpha dome   
levels had never spoken more eloquently of seduction. Avon, tired,   
puzzled and muddy, stood dripping on the expensive rug,   
feeling more conspicuously out of place than a Delta ditch-laborer   
at an inaugural ball.

When nothing and no one interrupted the ongoing silence to   
resolve his bewilderment, he squelched across the carpet to inspect   
the only other door in the room, and discovered the thoroughly   
modern convenience of a sono-shower ensconced in the otherwise   
antique decor of a spacious bathroom. That his unseen hostess had   
been expecting a male visitor was all the more apparent by the suit   
of clothes laid out on the dressing table inside the bathroom door.   
Clean boots, shiny black and of real leather, stood waiting beside   
black trousers, overshirt and belt -- and a simple open-necked   
tunic with a bright silver sheen. All in his size and   
unquestionably to his taste. Someone had gone to a great deal of   
trouble to cheat Parn and his friends of their reward money.

Someone also, disconcertingly, knew of his Alpha-bred penchant for   
a rather flashy wardrobe.

Inwardly, Avon shrugged. As interrogations went, this   
promised so far to be the most painless of his brief criminal   
career. Presumably, his hostess planned to appear and state her   
terms once he had made himself presentable. Well, to that much he   
certainly had no objection. Indulging the ghost of an ironic   
smile, he turned on the shower and began to strip off the wet,   
soiled clothing.

She was there, as predicted, lounging in one of the chairs   
with a glass of wine when he emerged in the clean clothes. Why it   
hadn't occurred to him sooner he couldn't have said, but the   
identity of his new 'keeper' took Avon aback for a moment. He'd   
seen her in many a Federation viscast; there was no mistaking those   
deceptively 'innocent' eyes, and the severe haircut that had become   
her personal trademark. He hesitated in the doorway, slurring her   
name into one distasteful drawl.

"Servalan."

Her eyes raked him like a slave-market buyer's, and the smile   
followed, tight-lipped and cunning. "Avon." She pronounced the   
name with a breathy resonance, nasalizing the second syllable.   
After that she seemed content merely to study him for several   
moments.

Avon stared back despite himself. He'd never had occasion to   
notice, from the viscasts, just how damnably beautiful she was.   
Somehow the Supreme Commander of the Galactic Federation Fleet   
lacked even the semblance of threat, wearing as she was a thin   
silver-white gown that did little to hide her rather considerable   
feminine attributes. Avon's eyes made their own appraisal in turn,   
and reached a mutually favorable conclusion.

"I really can't believe my good fortune." Her long fingers   
curled and uncurled around the base of the crystal wine glass. "Of   
all of them, you were the one I'd have chosen. The one most likely   
to be... reasonable. And here you are."

"So it would seem." He had no idea what the 'reasonable'   
remark implied, but he was not averse, for the moment, to playing   
her game. He assumed, however, that the 'chosen' business was a   
lie. Surely it was Blake she had intended to snare with all of   
this; the clothes must have been re-selected in haste once she'd   
learned who her hirelings were bringing her.

Arrogant confidence firmly in place, Avon strolled to the   
opposite chair and paused there to regard her with undisguised   
admiration. "As I recall the reference, Circe excelled at turning   
men into swine." He allowed his eyes to explore her candidly,   
asking the pertinent question of her intent, but her gaze returned   
only amusement, and a sidelong glance toward the sono-shower.

"I do appear to have fulfilled the legend... albeit somewhat   
in reverse. I should perhaps have taken closer stock of Blake's   
associates before this. You're an incredibly attractive man,   
Avon."

Feeling no particular need either to confirm or parry that, he   
instead defied what he presumed her expectation would be, and   
bypassed the chair, coming to stand with practiced indifference at   
the end of the oversized bed.

"What do you want, Servalan?"

She sipped at the wine, then set the glass aside and folded   
graceful hands in front of her, the slender forefingers extended,   
touching. "I've quite a simple proposition, really. I want   
_Liberator,_ and I want Blake. The others are of no consequence.   
You may do with them as you like."

He pretended to consider that, inclining his head slightly in   
a life-long habit indulged whenever he had need to stall for   
tactical advantage. At length, he said, "And what, as they say,   
would be in it for me?"

Her lithe form unfolded itself from the chair, and the frost   
white perfection of her moved within a few alluring inches, green   
eyes brimming calm reassurance. "Your freedom, a full pardon, and   
under specified conditions, virtually any amount of money you care   
to name."

He looked down at her, sternly denying the impulse to reach   
out and take what she so clearly offered in addition to her words.   
"A tempting overture," he said, aware of, but unconcerned with the   
double entendre. "A pity it comes without a guarantee."

"Oh, but there is one." She closed the space between them,   
molding herself easily to him, one finger coming up to tease the   
outline of his lips. "You're the only man in the galaxy who truly   
understands that ship. Only you could begin to duplicate   
_Liberator,_ its computers, the teleport... Your mind is your   
insurance, Avon."

He arrested her attempt to kiss him with one hand clamped to   
the back of her short-cropped hair. A moment later, having thus   
established control, he drew her to him with a savage grip and   
forcefully claimed her mouth for his own.

* * *

The overt sensuality of silk against flesh was a pleasure Kerr   
Avon had long since counted lost with the rest of his life in the   
domes. Drinking in the warm air's heady scent, he sighed, turned   
over -- and sat up in the bed with a stifled curse. He'd never   
intended falling asleep, but somehow he had, and now there were two   
matters immediately apparent that might not otherwise have come   
about: he was alone in the cabin, and Servalan's ship was in   
flight.

He redressed in the black clothes and discarded silver tunic,   
all the while unsure of the reason for his haste -- the Supreme   
Commander had left him precisely where she very much wanted him,   
and the door would undoubtedly be locked.

But it wasn't.

No one challenged his exit or his progress to the   
easily-located flight deck, where he found her enthroned in a   
spherical command chair, surrounded by her silently efficient crew   
of mutoids. The chair swiveled to face him when he arrived.

"Good morning," she said huskily. "I trust you slept well?"   
The cliche evoked a glare at once both sultry and disdainful.

Servalan affected not to notice, and the mutoids were oblivious by   
design.

"You're only just in time," she added, and rose to approach a   
control console, trailing the faultless white of her floor-length   
gown behind her.

"For...?"

"The first phase of our... agreement." At her touch, the   
ship's central view screen flickered and resolved into the image of   
Quarrus' murky ionosphere, a fraction of the planet's curvature,   
and the dwarfed-by-distance shape of _Liberator_ in stationary orbit.

Avon wondered if it remained there due to his disappearance --   
or the as-yet unsolved mystery of Zen's elusive distress signal.   
"And what phase is that?" Better to stay in the game now, he   
supposed. Even if Servalan did hold all the cards. He had to   
admit he found her wanton amorality easier to deal with by far than   
Blake's deluded idealism, and her taste in living quarters,   
clothing -- and men -- all had something to say for them as well.   
A life of unparalleled wealth was something that had always   
appealed to him, and now, once again, it loomed within his grasp.   
Reachable... for a price. And, he considered, all that she had   
offered for his betrayal might just be obtainable, if he   
manipulated things with proper care. If he made certain that she   
would continue to need him...

Servalan activated a series of controls to bring the ship's   
computer on line, and his attention was drawn to the smaller   
data screens, glowing blue and fluctuating with the rapid-fire   
patterns of systems checks.

"The first phase," she said in answer to his question, "of   
boarding and taking _Liberator._ You will use this terminal to   
contact Zen. Tell it to blind the sensor scans, open the aft bay   
doors and take this ship aboard -- all without alerting Blake or   
anyone else in the crew."

He flashed her a rare, if discomfited, smile. "It could be   
you overestimate my talents, just a bit."

"Oh, I don't think so." Her tone of voice was lilting,   
feline, and bespoke talents other than those to which he had   
referred.

"All right. Let us say then that I find your guarantee of my   
personal safety somewhat... tenuous, to say the least. I would   
prefer to negotiate slightly different terms."

She lounged against the console, irritatingly confident. "Go   
on."

"I will sell you Blake and the _Liberator_ in return for   
exclusive claim to the contents of its strongroom. The rest of the   
crew you will put off on a neutral planet. As to my guarantee..."

Suitably annoyed at his hesitation, she thrust an upturned   
hand toward him. "Yes?"

"Replication of the teleport facility is impossible without   
extensive knowledge of the Zen computer and most particularly   
without access codes which I have programmed and which are known   
only to myself. I will agree to fit your ships with teleport   
facilities, one at a time, provided I am given full command of   
_Liberator _and free reign to do with it as I please."

Servalan was nonplused by the proposal. "And what guarantee   
would I have against you and _Liberator_ simply vanishing into   
space?"

"You're welcome to stay aboard, if you like." The look that   
had elicited had made the entire verbal gambit worthwhile.   
"Barring that, I suppose you will just have to trust me."

She shook her head. "Oh no. You can't have what you aren't   
willing to give, Avon."

"Well those are my terms. Take them or leave them, the choice   
is yours."

He watched her consider alternatives, every one of which ran   
up against the block wall of his solitary claim to knowledge of the   
teleport's function. And she wanted the teleport -- that and that   
alone, he surmised, was the crux of her interest here. Blake and   
the _Liberator_ itself were incidental.

"I'll make you a counter offer," she said at last, and now it   
was his turn to wait. "Your terms, with the addition of a crew of   
three which I shall put aboard and who will assure that the terms   
of the agreement are kept."

He forestalled his own objection to that. What did it matter   
if she crewed _Liberator_ with three of her thick-witted commandos?

He could always kill them later.

"All right," he said. "I agree."

Coming regally upright from the console, she swept a   
white-sheathed arm toward it in an expansive gesture.

"The computer is yours."

* * *

Manipulating Zen was child's play when you knew your way   
around its failsafes, and Avon knew his way quite well indeed.   
He'd made it his business, over the past few months, to know the   
machine down to its proverbial component atoms, anticipating that   
the information might be crucial one day.

One day appeared to have arrived.

_Liberator's _hold yawned silently open to accept Servalan's   
cruiser, and the mutoid pilots set down somewhat less than   
gracefully between the painted guide lines striping the deck. The   
Supreme Commander watched impatiently while her crew awaited   
confirmation that the hold had re-pressurized. When at last it   
came, she turned to Avon with a smile.

"Safe aboard and no alarms. You've done well... so far."

He gave the loaded compliment an appropriate look of contempt   
and in equally mendacious tones, replied, "I'm glad you approve."

She gestured once again to the computer console. "Tell Zen to   
open the inner hatch."

He heard the whine of the landing ramp going down, and the   
grinding of the portside doors as they were drawn into the hull.   
Under Servalan's watchful gaze, his hands danced over the controls   
\-- and shut the system down.

Anger flared in the amber-green eyes. "What are you doing?!"

"The inner hatch is manually operated," he informed her   
calmly, and rose from the console. "Shall we go?"

She assessed him warily for a moment, but didn't move.   
Instead, she extended her right hand toward the mutoids and snapped   
her fingers twice, whereupon all four modifieds obediently   
scrambled to line themselves up in front of her.

"One and two," she said to them, though her eyes never left   
Avon, "arm yourselves and come with me. "Three and four, remain   
with the ship pending further instructions."

While they regrouped to obey her orders, Servalan produced a   
diminutive hand weapon of her own from a receptacle in the command   
console. Staging no further pretense of trust, she brought it   
soberly to bear on Avon.

"Now," she said, "we shall go."

Avon shot a weary look at the waiting armed escort. "They   
will not be necessary," he grated. "You will not need weapons to   
take _Liberator."_

"Won't I? And just how did you think I was going to take it?"

"Environmental control's main circuitry housing is just down   
the corridor outside that door. From there, I can instruct Zen to   
seal and exempt this level, then shut down life suppport on all the   
others -- until Blake surrenders."

"And if he doesn't?"

Avon's eyes regarded the decking for a prolonged moment.   
"Either way, you get what you want."

"And you would have no wearisome qualms about betraying,   
possibly killing, your friends."

He wouldn't look at her. It made the half-truth easier to   
utter. "Perhaps because I have none."

In fact, it hadn't occurred to him that Blake might actually   
be bull-headed enough to die before surrendering the ship. But if   
the self-made rebel leader should resort to such extremes, blame   
could hardly be placed at Avon's door. Besides, he doubted the   
others would willingly give up breathing in the name of Blake's   
revered Cause.

"All right." Servalan's gun dipped toward the ship's   
computer. "Turn off the life support from here."

"I can't. Environmental systems are immune to outside   
influence."

The gun snapped back to point at him. "If you're lying to   
me..."

Avon raised his hands in mute surrender, though he wasn't --   
she would have to continue accepting his terms, however much it   
chafed.

Angrily, she waved the tiny weapon at the exit corridor.   
"Move," she said, and before he could comply, added, "and Avon...   
At the first sign of trouble, I assure you I will kill you,   
teleport or no teleport. Remember that."

He gave her a half-smile that was more akin to a grimace. "I   
shall try."

She kept behind him, escort included, all the way down the   
ramp and across the bay deck to the hatch. _Liberator's_ power   
systems hummed obliviously around them, no less ignorant of his   
intentions when he keyed the autolock and spun the latch wheel to   
'open.' The heavy door swung outward at his deliberately   
flourished push, and he turned back to Madame Supreme Commander   
with a gentlemanly gesture indicating that she might now wish to   
take the lead.

"Oh, no." Suspicion still clouded her every syllable. "After   
you, Avon. Just remember, please, who's holding the gun."

Acquiescing, Avon stepped through the oval doorframe.   
The sharp whine of one of _Liberator's_ blasters caught him   
totally off guard. Heated air seared past him toward the doorway;

Servalan and the mutoid escorts scattered to dive for cover inside   
the bay, and Avon barely spun out of the way of the closing door.   
It slammed with a resounding thud, pushed from behind by the last   
person on board from whom Avon would ever have expected heroics.

"Vila!"

The thief finished tripping the override lock without looking   
at it. His eyes, and his gun, were both on Avon.

"Sorry to break up your little boarding party." All vestige   
of the usual fool's humor was missing from Vila's tone, though the   
words tumbled out as rapidly as ever. "But I thought I'd just come   
down and rescue you -- from yourself -- before you got in any   
deeper. Ask me why and I might still change my mind, though.   
Because if no one's ever told you before, I will. You're a   
bastard, Avon."

The gun trembled in his hand as he spoke, but remained pointed   
surely enough in the general direction of Avon's midsection.   
Whether Vila had nerve enough to fire it...

Avon rejected that line of thought in favor of a bluff. "You   
don't understand," he began, but Vila cut him off.

"Better than you think. There's a telltale on the weapons   
console linked to the cargo and landing bay doors. Didn't know   
about that, did you? Thought not. Anyway, I knew fiddling Zen's   
sensors like that, it couldn't be anyone but you. I just didn't   
figure on a Federation cruiser... oh, and Madame Dragonfly in   
there."

The sound of repeated paragun fire came from beyond the hatch,   
audible even through the thickness of the bulkhead. Servalan had   
obviously launched a full scale assault against the door, a   
contingency that Vila clearly hadn't counted on.

"You're too late to stop it," Avon told him with more   
confidence than he felt. "But," he added more cajolingly, "not too   
late to see reason. Play along, and we might be persuaded to be   
generous with all of that wealth in the storeroom."

Vila snorted. "Play along... With Servalan? I'd sooner cozy   
up to a tarantula."

Avon's head tilted in a subtle shrug. "Suit yourself," he   
replied, and the words were punctuated by more muffled gunfire   
barraging the inside of the door.

Vila's eyes narrowed. "And what about Blake and the others,   
then?"

"We dump them." Avon wasted no time pouncing on Vila's   
apparent weakening. "And Servalan as well, once we're clear."

"You'd really dump Blake?" Vila sounded incredulous, as though   
he'd assumed four months under Blake's moral tyranny might somehow   
have reformed Avon's character. It hadn't, nor was it destined to.   
"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Make up your mind, Vila -- that door will   
not hold much longer."

The thief shook his head, and the handgun lifted toward Avon.   
"I never un-made it. I'm not doing anything like that to Blake,   
and neither are you."

"Why?" Avon snapped at him, frustration making the words come   
out gun-report sharp. "What's Blake to you?"

Vila moved around him to the control panels beside the hatch,   
the gun still pointed all the while, and eyed him with a peculiar   
mixture of contempt and pity. "Blake's a friend of mine. And   
where I come from, that means something."

Avon watched in dismay as Vila's deft fingers proceeded to   
activate a code sequence on the panel. The final switch he   
depressed was that of the intercom.

"Madame Servalan," he said to the pick-up in stentorian tones,   
and the gunfire inside the bay cut off abruptly. "We do not regret   
to announce that the term of your visit with us has been canceled.   
In precisely four point three-seven minutes, landing bay two will   
recycle for launch procedure. If I were you, I'd be back aboard   
your ship some time before then."

"Avon," the intercom hissed, haughtily discounting Vila's   
threat for the moment. "Sooner or later, I'll see you pay for   
this."

Shoulder to shoulder with Vila now, Avon addressed the   
intercom from the opposite side. "Don't hold your breath," he   
advised it drolly. "It's of very little use in attempting to   
breathe vacuum."

Frigid silence answered him, then the speaker picked up the   
angry click of retreating heels closely followed by the tramping of   
combat boots. In a moment, they could also hear the rumble of the   
landing ramp retracting. When the roar of the ship's rotation and   
launch thrusters began, Avon cut the circuit.

"She's leaving," he said.

Vila was glaring at him, his _Liberator_ weapon still in hand,   
though it pointed upward now. "No thanks to you."

Avon met the smaller man's hostility with an avaricious   
half-smile. "It can still be ours, Vila. Yours and mine."

"It's already mine. Well part of it, anyway. Better poor and   
safe than greedy and dead, I always say."

The intercom precluded Avon's intended response: this time it   
was Gan's voice coming threadily over the intraship frequency.   
"Vila?"

Still glowering at Avon, the Delta thief punched the call   
button. "Yes?"

"Blake and Jenna just came up," the bass voice replied. "You   
and I are on search detail next."

Vila looked disgusted. "Tell Blake to never mind. I've found   
Avon."

"You what?" That was Blake, sounding tired, annoyed, and   
decidedly soggy.

"We're at landing bay two, if you'd care to say hello." Vila   
cut the circuit on Blake's sputter of incomprehension.

"Search detail..." Avon quoted acidly. "Still hunting for the   
mythical shipwrecked crew?"

Vila shook his head. "No. For you. Blake has a naive idea   
the people in this crew have some allegiance to each other. He   
doesn't know you'd sell him out for a pretty face and thirty pieces of   
silver."

"But you, I suppose, will be more than happy to enlighten   
him."

Vila's cagey look and lack of response unnerved Avon more than   
he would have admitted. Of all the so-called crew, Vila was the   
last he'd have expected to find incorruptible. What Blake's   
reaction might be he found still less pleasant to divine. The   
man's tiresome morals aside, turning Avon in for the reward might   
well be deemed a fitting retribution in his eyes. End game to   
Blake, no counter match. All the wealth and all the clever verbal   
sparring in the universe would not be enough to corrupt him.   
Crusaders like Blake embraced sainthood by hallowed decree.   
The saint in question, mud-covered and rain slick from his   
most recent surface foray, clumped around a juncture at that moment   
to confront them, narrowed eyes at once taking in Avon's clean   
silver tunic -- and the air of tension hanging in the corridor.   
"Vila, how did...?"

"Hell if I know." The gun had vanished into its holster, and   
the cringing whine was back, full persona, in Vila's voice. But it   
was his words rather than his inflection that made Avon's gaze dart   
to him in astonishment. "I got a warning light on the weapons   
console that a ship was landing in bay two, and when I got here,   
there he was. Said he found a ride... with some friends."

Blake's reply was swift and merciless. "He hasn't got any."

Still maintaining the pretense that Avon was not there at all, he   
shouldered past them, knuckled three buttons on the control board,   
and pulled back the hatch door.

The landing bay yawned in front of him, cycled, re-pressurized,   
and shipless. Even the burn marks from Servalan's thwarted assault   
were gone, obliterated by the zeal of _Liberator's_ auto-repair   
system.

While Blake gaped, Vila traded looks with Avon behind the   
rebel leader's back. The thief's smug smile and glittering eyes   
spoke volumes, none of which Avon would particularly relish   
reading. Not that he appeared to have a choice...

"All right." Blake had turned back from the door, and his   
words were directed to Avon this time. Apparently he existed after   
all. "Perhaps we should start from the beginning. What happened   
to you down there?"

"Teleport malfunction," Avon answered crisply, and before   
Blake could impart further demands, added, "It's rather a long   
story."

Blake's hands rested obstinately on his hips. "I have plenty   
of time."

As though to belie his statement, the intercom erupted with   
Cally's anxious tones. "Blake, are you there? Zen is picking up a   
Federation cruiser in the vicinity."

Well, that was on cue. Avon had programmed the sensor-blind   
to dissolve in forty minutes, no more and no less time than would   
be necessary. Only now it was redeeming him for what might be the   
second occasion.

"On my way," Blake told the speaker, and made to go, turning   
back just long enough to deliver a parting comment to Avon. "I'm   
sure you'll find time, later, to explain all of this, including   
just how you got aboard?"

"Naturally," Avon replied, and cast Vila a conspiratorial   
glance.

Their damp but intrepid 'leader' scowled at them, then shook   
his head wearily and went on his way.

Avon waited only until Blake had vanished round the juncture.   
Then he turned on Vila with thinly-repressed rage.

"Well?"

Feigned innocence laced the reply. "Well? Well what?"

"Don't play the idiot with me," Avon growled at him. "What do   
you want, Vila?"

The Delta thief looked contemplative, then broke into a sly   
grin, all semblance of the fool completely gone again.

"Oh," he mused, irritatingly evasive, "I imagine I'll think of   
something. Eventually. Meanwhile, I think you ought to practice   
being very nice to me, Avon."

And with that, he walked away.


End file.
